After the fire herb ripened, it still had to be dried in the sun. The Wolf Pack would have to guard the estate for at least three months.
Standing atop the estate's long walls, Gendry looked down over the land below. The night was deep and lingering, the stars sharp against the sky. Tonight, he and some of the Sellswords were on watch. Longspear and Morningstar served as his instructors as well, and their unpredictable use of those strange weapons had put him through hell. Against a shorter weapon, a long one always had its advantages.
"Magister Calaso must be in agony," Longspear grumbled. "It's been a disaster year for fire herb. His stockpile could fetch an even better price. That's why he has to hold on to this most fertile estate, though it's too damned remote."
Fire herb, as a cash crop, rose and fell with the market. This year, many estates had been hit by calamity and the price had jumped, but Calaso had already sold off his older stores, leaving only what was still growing in the fields.
"There's no good solution," Morningstar said. "The Magisterial election in Myr is a game where you burn coin. Calaso's from the Fire Herb Guild, so he has to throw his hat in." Magisters of Myr were usually put forward by the great guilds: the Carpet Guild, the Glassmakers' Guild, the Fire Herb Guild, and the Wine Guild.
Gendry listened to their complaints. The power structure of the Free Cities was nothing like Westeros. Merchants held enormous sway, often above the nobility, and Magisters were drawn from their ranks more often than not.
"Listen."
A sound cut through the dark, swelling into a rumbling roar. Flickers of light appeared like fireflies, and then they understood. A large force was coming.
"Fighting's here. Blood's coming," Longspear said. "You ready, lad?" He struck the alarm bell, and its ringing carried across the whole estate.
Gendry didn't answer. He simply lifted his cold, spiked warhammer.
Handsome Man was on the wall moments later, staring out at the torches. The bell and the horns together roused the entire Wolf Pack.
"Runaway slaves and bandit Sellswords," Handsome Man said. The Disputed Lands had no shortage of fugitive slaves, and when they fell in with bandit Sellswords, they made a habit of raiding estates.
Gendry watched the torchlight in the distance. They had come to the fire herb estate for a free haul.
"Archers!" Handsome Man ordered.
Thirty men climbed onto the high walls and readied their bows. Half carried crossbows. Most of the rest used eastern double-curved bows of horn and sinew, while only a few had purpleheart longbows. The estate's slaves also went up to the wall, preparing barrels to roll and cauldrons of hot oil.
Outside bow range, the bandit Sellswords and runaway slaves began shouting.
"Listen up, you inside! Open the gates! Open them now!"
"Are you blind? This is the private estate of a Magister of Myr!"
"Magister of Myr, my arse. This estate belongs to us now!" a bandit knight shouted back.
"Who's your leader?" Handsome Man called, scanning a crowd that looked to be several hundred strong.
"It's me. Purplebeard of Crown Town."
In the firelight, a man with bright purple hair stepped forward, his armor glinting with a faint, eerie sheen. He was tall, his shield marked with the symbol of the Three-Headed God, and his fine steel armor was chased with ornate spirals. He bared his face, thick-jowled and broad, with pale, cunning eyes.
"Open the gate," he said. "Maybe we'll leave you a bit of wealth. Refuse, and we leave no one alive."
"I don't think so," Handsome Man replied. "We're not bandits. We're Sellswords."
"Crown Town?" Gendry asked.
"The heart of the Disputed Lands," someone explained. "A nest for robber knights. Long ago, nine outlaws, exiles, pirates, and Sellsword captains, later called the Band of Nine, gathered beneath the Crown Tree and swore an oath. They promised to help each other fulfill their ambitions of conquering kingdoms."
"It seems you've rejected my kindness," Purplebeard said, waving a hand. "You could've joined us and looted far more estates."
Spears flashed out from the firelit shadows behind him, flying straight for Handsome Man. Handsome Man saw them coming and twisted aside.
Then more spears came flying in.
"Down!" Handsome Man shouted.
Most of the Wolf Pack were seasoned enough to drop or duck in time. Only one or two unlucky slaves were too slow. Spearheads drove into their throats, bursting through their necks in a spray of blood.
"Charge! Kill them all. Once they're dead, this estate is ours!" Purplebeard shouted, his voice cold and detached.
Outside the walls, armor, blades, spears, and shields crashed together in a constant din. Even Purplebeard's own men were hesitant, wary of the poorly equipped fugitive slaves behind them. Then torches were thrown into the estate, trying to coax more tongues of flame into life.
The estate steward had already prepared for this. Some of the slaves rushed about, frantically dousing the burning torches as they landed.
"Ladders! Let the runaways climb first!" Purplebeard barked his orders.
The estate's walls were built of rough stone and were easy enough to climb. Fortunately, the Wolf Pack had already dug a trench outside the walls, making the assault far more difficult.
"Whoosh!" "Whoosh!"
The Wolf Pack's bowstrings snapped with sharp, forceful sounds as arrows flew out. Fugitive slaves wearing nothing more than leather armor or padded vests had no chance of dodging them.
The enemy seemed endless. In the brief gaps between volleys, attackers finally managed to climb up. One after another, they swarmed onto the wall. Gendry raised his warhammer. Each time he smashed someone down and sent them tumbling, another enemy surged forward to take their place.
One particularly quick runaway slave made it up, but Longspear rushed over without hesitation. His weapon struck like a venomous snake, piercing straight through the man.
A few fugitive slaves tried to hack their way through the main gate, but they lacked the strength. Instead, arrows cut them down where they stood.
The stench hit Gendry all at once. Fire, iron, blood, smoke. It was everywhere. He saw a manor slave collapse beside him, his face already reduced to ruined flesh by a spiked hammer.
"Long live the Wolf Pack! Ten men with me! Skilled riders, fully armored!" Handsome Man shouted.
He cast a quick glance over the battlefield. Purplebeard's men had no siege engines and no reinforcements.
"Me!" Gendry answered at once, following Handsome Man down the stairs. They found their horses in the stables.
The iron-clad group burst out of the estate, slamming headlong into Purplebeard's forces.
Gendry swung his spiked warhammer like a bull-headed war god. His newly polished horned helmet gleamed, the horns shining in the firelight.
Bang.
The warhammer felt like an extension of his body. Riding at full speed, Gendry brought it crashing down with brutal precision, striking every exposed weakness he could find. Throats. Heads. The joints of armor.